


Art for Art's Sake (Money for God's Sake)

by GloriaMundi



Category: Desperate Romantics
Genre: C19, Community: kink_bingo, Historical, M/M, POV First Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What would Annie Miller do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art for Art's Sake (Money for God's Sake)

"The fallen woman is the artist's greatest theme," said Ruskin reflectively. "Yet a man of sensibility cannot help but find her ... repugnant."

"Very true, sir, very true," I hastened to agree, for his gaze upon me was like a tangible pressure. His eyes did not meet mine, but were fixed upon ... upon my mouth.

Oh my god. John Ruskin, staring at my mouth with a fervour unequalled in my scant experience. A fervour I had seen on the face of a man consumed by basest lust. (A fervour I had seen most lately on the visage of my good friend Maniac — Mr William Holman Hunt — when he looked upon the fair face of Annie Miller. Which brought to mind, inevitably, Gabriel's words: "What would Annie Miller do?"

My throat was dry: I swallowed, and moistened my lips, and heard the catch of Ruskin's breath.

What would Annie Miller do? And how much would she —

Fifty pounds, or I would never see Ophelia again. Fifty pounds, Lizzie Siddall's father had demanded of Gabriel, or my daughter's modelling career is finished.

I felt myself flush at the thought of what I must do for the sake of my art, for the sake of that unfinished picture in my studio. Yet surely it would not be so very different to my experiences at the Academy?

"The fallen woman," I essayed, "reminds us that we are all damned. But I myself find as worthy, as fascinating a theme in the fallen _man_."

Ruskin stared at me as though I were speaking Greek. I hardly dared meet his gaze. How could I make my meaning more plain?

"That, Johnny, is very true." Ruskin's mouth was wet. He glanced away, only to look askance at me from half-lidded eyes. (I spared a moment to memorise that look. Should I ever truly wish to depict the Fall of Man, my Adam would wear just such an expression.) "But such a subject would have to be treated with utmost ... sensitivity. Decorum."

"Absolutely, sir," I said. "The man must fall to his knees." I was grateful for the clean softness of the Turkey carpet. "He would be abject," I went on, rather thickly. "His head tilted, thus ..."

Ruskin's hand — white, manicured, unstained by paint or pen — came to rest upon my shoulder. I wondered if he and Effie ...

That thought, that damnably incendiary image, was enough to make me turn towards the pressure of his hand, parting my lips, pressing a kiss to his palm.

Everything after that was familiar, known: if I did not permit myself to think of Annie Miller plying her trade, or Effie Ruskin with her mouth like a rose, or Lizzie Siddall dreaming in the bath, then I could commit this act, this _favour_, this simple pleasure between two men. For Ruskin, despite his effete manner, was ineluctably masculine, musk and salt and bitterness, thrusting forcefully yet never relinquishing his gentle caress of my hair, my neck, the tender skin behind my ear.

The act was swift, and self-evidently satisfactory for Ruskin: I forced myself to think of cold water, of nausea, of the natural revulsion that ... that any gentlewoman would feel if she happened upon us now. By these means I mastered my own arousal, and did not disgrace myself.

Ruskin's skin was flushed, and he turned away from me as he restored his dress. I wished heartily for a glass of water, or a cup of Effie's reviving chamomile tea, or perhaps something stronger: but I did not speak, only wiped my mouth on my handkerchief and took my seat again.

Decency reasserted, Ruskin went to his desk and opened the drawer. I heard the distinctive rustle of banknotes, and a cold sweat prickled at my nape, for this was too nearly the conclusion to a commercial transaction.

"I'm dashed ashamed to be asking," I said, hoping that the past five minutes could be set aside and our prior relation of artist and critic be restored. "I didn't know where else to turn."

"Johnny," said Ruskin, and his voice was warm, "it's my pleasure to help you." He smiled absently at me.

"I don't know how I'll ever get the money to repay you," I confessed.

"Once you have displayed Ophelia at the Academy show, I'm sure you'll find a buyer," said Ruskin.

"There is no guarantee it will be accepted," I felt obliged to remind him.

"Oh, I think you'll find that it will be." His attention seemed wholly fixed on the notes he was counting, but his breathing had become erratic again, and when he glanced up at me his eyes held some sentiment that, in a less sober gentleman, I might have thought playfulness.

"Sir, I hardly ..." But I did not know how to frame my objection.

"Think of me as your patron, Johnny."

"Patron?" I blurted.

"If you wish it," said Ruskin, and his smile was tentative and sweet.

"Of course I wish it, sir!" I leapt up and clasped his hand, forgetting in an instant the way that hand had held me down.

"We have an accord," said Ruskin: and I? I could only nod and blush and stutter, for now I understood the contract that he left unsaid.

-end-


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